Heroes: Allies
by furore28
Summary: The first 3 chapters of a story set after the destruction of Pinehearst. Who are the two mysterious men who have come for Arthur Petrelli? What has happened to the US President? Who has confronted the Haitian and who has attacked 19-year old Mike Davis?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

Night had fallen over the borough of Fort Lee, New Jersey, a district named after General Charles Lee, an Englishman, who fought for George Washington's Continental Army during the American Revolution. It is said that it was Washington's retreat from this area which inspired Thomas Paine to compose "The American Crisis", a series of pamphlets which harangued the colonists to rise against their British overlords.

Who could have guessed that another revolution would take place there this very night?

A jet black Mercedes-Benz F 200 Imagination drove silently along an empty, narrow road leading away from the town. It's 6.0 L V12 engine had been converted to turn its imperious roar into an eerie whirr. With its darkened paint job and dazzling headlights, this coupe glided ghostlike over the shadowy tarmac.

The car turned a sharp corner and stationed itself on the side of the road. The driver turned off the ignition and undid his seatbelt. His passenger chugged down the last of his take-away coffee and tossed the lukewarm cup over the dashboard. The butterfly doors of the Mercedes opened extravagantly as the two men got out. They sauntered over to the building complex standing a hundred metres or so in front of them. An illuminated sign welcomed them as they drew near. On it, next to its horizontal helix logo, read:

PINEHEARST

Both men wore long auburn coats which dropped to their ankles. They each had a grey scarf wrapped around their necks and arranged in such a way as to conceal the bottom-half of their faces. The driver, a tall and muscular man with swirls of long brown hair, dug into his pockets and produced a folded photo of a sixty-something man with thick eyebrows.

'We're here,' declared the driver in a deep, sombre voice, 'can you see where he is?'

The passenger, an Asian man with intimidating slits for eyes, stopped his gait and took a deep breath.

'Hold on,' he answered.

The passenger looked down at the ground and shut his eyes. When he lifted his head again his eyelids flashed open to reveal a set of lime green irises with an empty, shrunken pupil in its centre. He scanned the whole building and was astonished at what he saw.

'What's wrong?' asked the driver, noticing his partner's reaction.

'Well,' smiled the passenger, 'it looks like we've been beaten to the hunt.'

'What do you mean?' asked the driver quizzically.

'Most of their guards have been whacked…' the passenger pointed towards the upper floors, '…and it seems our target's _already_ taken care of.'

'Impossible,' scoffed the driver, 'we're talking about Arthur Petrelli here,'

'_The_ Arthur Petrelli is on the floor with a bullet in his head! And the culprit looks like-'

Before the passenger could finish, the top floor of the building erupted in an intense amber flame. The force of the blast had both men staggering a few steps backwards. As the driver adjusted himself, he noticed something flying away from the eruption.

'What's that?' he asked, pointing at the getaways.

'_That_ was the culprit-' replied the passenger, shielding his eyes from the glare of the fire, '-Arthur's son, Peter Petrelli. I saw him jab himself with a syringe before he flew out. It's hard to tell, but I think he's taken Nathan Petrelli with him.'

The driver looked at his partner as if he was a madman, 'That _sponge_ defeated Arthur? I thought he lost his powers...'

The passenger raised a hand to indicate silence. Hs eyes began to spin wickedly in all directions like a chameleon.

'I think the Haitian was holding Arthur's powers when the Sponge shot him,' he explained, 'That baldy's run off somewhere and I can't find him while his power's on.'

The driver pinched the bridge of his nose and lost himself in deep thought. As panicked voices began to echo inside the burning building, he came to a decision.

'Arthur's definitely dead then?' he asked.

The passenger scanned the floors again, 'Definitely. He hasn't moved an inch since the explosion. If that bullet didn't kill him then the fire will.'

The driver turned away from the burning mess and walked back towards their car, 'Then we can go. We'll say that our mission was completed by an outside party. If we leave now we'll avoid the authorities.'

The passenger shut his eyes again and returned them to their original state, 'Whatever you say…'

As the pair of them headed down the road, an angry bark from behind made both of them stop in their tracks. The driver turned around and saw his partner being held at the neck by an unknown assailant. He was breathing heavily and beads of sweat dappled his hairless scalp. His clothes were charred and were barely hanging on to his body. He emitted a fierce, blue flame from his free hand which was aimed at the passenger's face.

'Gimme your car,' demanded the assailant, 'or your friend's gonna be barbecued!'

The assailant was puzzled by both men's reactions. None of them seemed remotely concerned by the current situation. His hostage was deathly calm, and he seemed so unmoved by his threats that he almost looked bored. His partner's face remained impassive and his cool composure seemed to mock the assailant's rush of urgency.

The assailant hesitated, 'Somethin' wrong with your hearin' aid? Gimme the keys _now _or your friend's gonna fry!'

The driver gave him a sudden, intense glare which shook the assailant's system to the core. His heart skipped beats and his whole body shivered. He had never seen such intense eyes. When his rush of fear cooled, he noticed embarrassingly that the flames from his hand had gone out. Irritated, he shoved his hostage away and ignited both hands.

'I'm done askin'…' he sneered.

The driver calmly placed his right hand over his left shoulder with his palm horizontally flat. The passenger cursed at this gesture and dived hastily to one side.

The assailant watched the passenger's reaction and sniggered, 'I dunno what's wrong with'ya…' light-blue fireballs formed in his hands, '…but I'm not playin' around!'

Before the assailant could release the fireballs, the driver swung his hand outwards in front of his body in one swift motion. In perfect unison with the hand movement, the head of the assailant flew off his body with no resistance, as if it had been sliced cleanly by an invisible axe. The passenger got up and glanced wincingly at the decapitated body.

'Did you really have to kill him?' coughed the passenger, 'You know blood's not my thing.'

'He was a pyrokinetic,' replied the driver, 'you _know_ how troublesome they can get.'

'Yeah…whatever…' grumbled the passenger, 'let's go already. I don't wanna miss the game tonight…''

With Pinehearst aflame and the Mercedes in retreat, the trumpets were sounded and the guns were drawn. The revolution had begun.


	2. Chapter 2: Double Jeopardy

**Chapter 2: Double Jeopardy**

Chase Rosberg took a deep sigh as he trudged up to the ornately-built podium which stood on the edge of the stage. He approached the stand but nobody in the audience clapped. The microphone seemed to point mockingly up at him as he rested his clammy hands onto the edges of the rostrum. You shouldn't be here. Nobody wants you. You are a liar, a mistake.

Rosberg was elected as US President five months ago after an intense three-year campaign against his more popular and invigorating opposition. With the pre-voting polls showing a significant lead for his rival, Rosberg spat out a torrent of over-ambitious campaign promises which he guaranteed would be kept if he was elected. After a series of prolonged post-election celebrations and a two-week delay for the completion of his newly-renovated oval office, Rosberg could no longer stall the start of his presidency, and it only took a month in office for the voters to realise that this man was not fit to rule.

Today he found himself facing a sea of reporters and cameramen at a press conference in the Piazza del Duomo in Milan, Italy. With the Duomo di Milano as the backdrop, a 700 year-old Gothic cathedral with a bronze _Madonnina_ statue gleaming brilliantly from a spire 108.5m high, Rosberg looked even more insignificant in stature. It was the midway point of the three-day G8 summit between the heads of government of eight nations in the northern hemisphere. Rosberg represented the US and his country's press were anxious to hear what, if any, progress had been made.

After taking a deep breath, Rosberg gleaned a smile and greeted the awaiting journalists.

'Good afternoon,' he began, 'I would first like to thank the Italian Prime Minister Federico Lavecchia for being such a great host for this year's G8 summit,' Rosberg paused to allow a polite applause to resonate from the crowd, 'and I would also like to thank all of you for gathering here for this press conference,' the reporters seemed to ignore this declaration, 'uh…well then! Let's begin the questions, shall we?'

A flurry of hands sprang up from the field of inquisitive faces and flashing cameras.

Rosberg pointed to a young man in a smart grey suit, 'Yes, you sir?

The young man rose immediately and flicked through some pages in his notepad before he spoke, 'Gerald Brookes, _New York Times_,' Rosberg tugged at his collar to prepare himself for the question. He had practiced his answers meticulously the night before and narrated them monotonously while he ate his breakfast. Bring it on, 'how will the US cooperate with the other members of the G8 in order to combat the current global economic downturn?'

Rosberg's heartbeat accelerated. Calm down, remember your answer…

'I have certainly discussed this with my fellow leaders, and we have decided upon a comprehensive 4-year plan of an international "bail-out" project for major transnational institutions. All G8 nations will contribute a large sum of money which will be distributed to various banks and…'

'But Mr. President,' interjected the reporter, 'why should we bail out the bankers who have _caused_ this economic downturn? Shouldn't they at least receive some sort of punishment for their ineptitudes?' the reporter's statement brought murmurs of approval from the audience.

Rosberg gripped the rostrum tightly. His heartbeat crescendoed and beads of sweat formed over his brows, 'Well, uh, those bankers responsible have already been heavily reprimanded by all governments of the G8, and uh… but we have decided to carry out this "bail out" project in order to restore economic prosperity around the world in the quickest possible way…'

A female reporter in a pearly-white jacket rose abruptly from the back, 'Carol Rojas, _USA Today_. How will your proposed "bail-out" project come to pass if the US government is still raising funds for "Triple N" which, I may add, is still far from commencement?'

'Well…I uh…' Rosberg's body was getting hot and sweat had begun to pour down his temples, 'I agree that "Triple N"is long overdue, but you must not forget that the, uh, gigantic costs of funding and running…'

'When will those healthcare plans you promised come into effect?' yelled a voice from deep within the audience, 'Millions of Americans still can't afford basic medical treatments!'

'When will our troops come home?'

'When are you gonna do somethin' meaningful, Mister President?'

The majority of the audience had now stood up, each one barking one complaint after another. Radio journalists waved their tape recorders in the air to try and record the blast of angry outcries. Large security personnel struggled to keep the crowd at bay. Cameras flashed incessantly to get a picture of the panicked and perspiring President for tomorrow's front page.

'When will you lower taxes?'

'We want action!'

'Mr. President! Mr. President!'

Rosberg clutched his chest. He was struggling for breath and his left arm drooped limply on his side. He had never had one before, but he knew this was no ordinary heart-attack. It felt as if some one had gotten into his body and was physically _crushing_ his heart from within. His face turned pale and his limbs became numb. He gave out one last yelp for help before he crumbled behind the rostrum.

Secret service agents immediately surrounded the President's body. The reporters swarmed forward underneath the stage to get a closer shot of the fallen leader. Camera crews craned forward to give the millions of viewers watching live a better view. Screams of awe echoed around the church square and passers-by rushed in to see what all the fuss was about.

'Close-off the square!' commanded an agent, 'don't let anyone in or out! This could be an assassination!'

'Get an ambulance! The President's fading…!'

In the raised camera crew box located a few hundred metres away from the rostrum stood a twenty-something man in a _Euronews_ crews' jacket with a cell phone to his ear. He was an attractive man; with his gelled, dark blonde-hair and chiselled cheekbones, he could have easily been mistaken for a model or actor. If anyone had taken notice of him during this moment of hysteria, he would have seemed like any other camera crew member who was most likely phoning his head office to break the big news. The _Euronews _crew themselves were too busy filming the mayhem to realise that this young man was _not_ in fact a member of their _Euronews _teamat all.

The young man waited calmly for the recipient to pick up the phone. With all the noise and commotion about there was no danger of anyone else overhearing their conversation. After three repeated rings the other line crackled into life.

'Hello?' answered the receiver.

'Are you watching the news, sir?' asked the young man, who spoke with a hint of an eastern-European accent.

'Of course I am,' replied the receiver, 'I still can't believe you managed it.'

'Never doubt us again sir, we are professionals.'

'Sorry…good work anyways,'

'Phase 2 will begin shortly, sir.'

'How soon?'

The young man glanced at his watch, 'They should be making contact with our target in a few minutes.'

'Do you really think you can get him?'

'Please, sir,' smirked the caller, 'I have already told you before that you should not doubt us. We are professionals. One of my associates will call you again. And let me assure you, you will not be disappointed…'

About 8500km away, a bald, dark-skinned man with a small, triangular goatee was racing down the Santa Clara road in Havana, Cuba. After seeing President Rosberg collapse on TV (which was greeted by cheers and jeers from some locals in the bar), the bald man known as 'the Haitian' stormed out of the doors and ran swiftly towards the ports. He had taken a few days off for vacation but his job always came first. He carried his phone in his hand as he ran, eagerly anticipating a call from his boss.

The Haitian knew that the President was assassinated. Even if Rosberg had come under intense pressure during his presidency, it was not enough to cause heart failure in a man of his health. Rosberg had served as a fighter-pilot for the US Air Force during the Gulf War and it was widely known that he still continued his old training routines daily in his spare time. Did someone poison him? Not likely. Rosberg looked completely at ease at the start of the conference. It would be difficult to create a poison which stayed dormant in someone's body until its poison took effect. His heart attack could have been caused by someone's ability…

He could talk about this later with his boss. Right now, he needed to get back to the US as soon as possible. Once he reached his boat at the docks, he could reach Florida by nightfall.

Weaving in and out of crowds, the Haitian ignored the angry yells from pedestrians and commuters who were heading to work. A bartender cursed at him for knocking his menu-stand over; a beggar spat at him for kicking dust into his eyes; an old woman crossing the road screeched as she dodged the oncoming Haitian, who raised a hand to indicate his apologies. When he reached the pier, he leapt on board his speedboat and fumbled about in his pockets for his keys.

The Haitian was startled by the ring of his phone. He kept one hand in his pocket as he continued his search.

'H-Ha-Hallo?' he panted.

'It's me,' the caller was the Haitian's boss, Noah Bennet, who was a member of the now defunct "Company", an organisation which studied people with special abilities, 'I think you know why I called you. And judging by your breathing, I guess you're already on your way.'

'Whay-a do we meet?'

'Come to the Petrelli house as soon as you can. I've already got a team arranged. Your job is to…'

Noah's words drowned out of the Haitian's ear. He had turned around and was shell-shocked at what he saw.

From the pier, a group of twenty men had gathered around the Haitian's boat in two even lines. The temperature outside was around 20C°, yet these men were wearing full-body silver robes complete with hoods which covered each man's face. With no discernable features, they all looked completely identical to one other. With every second that passed, the throng of silver robes took a step closer to the Haitian.

'Hello?' asked Noah with concern, 'Are you listening to me? What's your status…?'

The Haitian threw his phone at the nearest man, but to the Haitian's amazement the robed man did not react at all. The phone bounced harmlessly off the man's head. The Haitian reached into his holster and withdrew his handgun. The bullets were spat out as the silencer muffled the shots. The front line of robed men went down without a fight. The second line withdrew a little, and he Haitian took the opportunity to reload.

As the Haitian took aim again, the second line of men sprang into the air in unison. To the Haitian's surprise, they leapt to a humanly impossible height; the Haitian guessed 20 feet. While the Haitian was caught off guard, the first line of men who were shot stood up from the ground.

The Haitian had no chance. He shot desperately at both groups but was taken down by the two-pronged attack. The twenty robed men held him down on his boat with such force that the Haitian coughed up blood from the combined pressure.

The Haitian's phone, now lying damaged on the pier, was still connected to the other line and Noah continued to try and reach him.

'What's going on? Can you speak…?'

A skinny man in a cool cotton shirt kicked the phone into the waters below. He wore thick black rimmed glasses and carried a small laptop computer under his arm. He approached the boat and took a long look at the Haitian.

'Becky,' called the thin man with a sharp German accent, 'get your men to lift him up.'

One of the robed men grabbed the Haitian's neck and forcefully pulled him up. He had lost all his strength and he was utterly defenceless. As the thin man walked towards him, the Haitian focused all his energy into activating his ability.

'It's no use, _glatzkopf_,' said the thin man, 'your power is useless. I am just an ordinary human being, nothing special.'

The Haitian's ability allowed him to erase people's memories and suppress people's abilities. He guessed that these robed men were under this man's control, but what the thin man had said was correct. Neither the thin man nor the robed men were affected by his power.

The thin man grabbed the Haitian's cheeks and squeezed them together with his fingers, 'You see _glatzkopf_, these men are under _Becky's_ control,' he jutted the Haitian's face towards a figure who was approaching the pier. The Haitian recognised her as the old woman he had almost run into in the streets, 'however hard you try,' the thin man brought the Haitian's face close to his, meeting him with a sadistic, toothy grin, 'you cannot beat us, _glatzkopf_.'

The Haitian spat into the thin man's eyes. He recoiled in disgust and kicked the Haitian hard in the stomach. The Haitian coughed in pain while the thin man wiped his glasses hastily. The thin man then reached into his pocket and took out a gun.

'_Gute Nacht_!' he laughed.

A dart hit the Haitian's neck and he dropped lifelessly onto the deck of his boat. The robed men leapt over the thin man and arranged themselves neatly behind the old woman known as "Becky". She had a hunched back and a sagging face. She wore a purple veil which hid her receding hairline. She lifted her face to reveal a set of beige sunglasses.

'Did my boys do well?' she asked in an aristocratic, British accent.

'Of course they did, Becky,' answered the thin, taking out his phone, 'I am going to make a call so wait here for Leonard. He'll be here in about an hour.'

'Good, good,' smiled Becky.

The thin man dialled the same number as the man in Milan had. Again, the phone rang three times before it was picked up.

'Hello?' answered the recipient.

'Phase 2 has just been completed, sir,' answered the thin man.

'You people really _are_ professionals,' laughed the recipient.

'_Vielen Dank_,'

'So… what happens next?'

'There's no need to rush, sir. Once you receive the signal, Phase 3 will _already_ be over…'


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Mike Davis**

'_The 44__th__ President of the United States, Chase Rosberg, is dead. The President had suffered a suspected heart attack during a G8 press conference in the Italian city of Milan and was rushed to hospital by local paramedics. After several attempts to revive him, the President was pronounced deceased by Italian doctors at 6:42pm GMT._

'_FBI investigators have refused to rule out the possibility of assassination as the cause of President Rosberg's death and a full inquiry into the incident is currently underway. The Vice-President was unfortunately unavailable for comment. _

'_Although considered a controversial figure by the public, this former Air Force fighter-pilot proudly served this country for the good of its people. The President's body will return to the United States tomorrow and a memorial service will be held in his honour at the National Mall on Friday at 1pm. _

'_A representative from The White House has urged the public to…'_

'Jesus! He's really dead…'

'I watched it live. I thought he fainted or something…'

'He was grabbing his chest! Of course he was havin' a heart attack!'

'It couldn't be terrorists…'

A large crowd of morning commuters had gathered inside the atrium of a large shopping mall in the town of Santa Alba, California. They were all looking up at a large television screen built into the wall, listening intently to the breaking story. The whole country was in a state of shock as news of the President's death reached the ears of every single American citizen. There was an eerie silence across the nation as the news had finally sunken in. Arguments and rumours circulated amongst the people. Was it an assassination? Will Rosberg really be missed? Did he deserve it?

'Hey Mike! I got your coffee,'

'Thanks man,'

Two college students left a Starbucks café and walked nonchalantly past the mass of spectators. They were both nineteen and had stopped by the mall for some breakfast before class. Both of them had little interest in politics but this incident had even these two ragamuffins in disbelief.

The student who bought the coffee was Landon Campbell, a water sports enthusiast with a penchant for hot and spicy food. He was about 6ft and had a flame of orange hair. He had a long, freckled face with a Japanese tattoo of "tsunami" blazed across his left cheek. Today he wore baggy blue jeans and a dark-grey fleece jacket.

With him was his childhood friend, Mike Davis. He had tangles of black, curly hair and had a long, aquiline nose. He was taller than Landon and was quite skinny. He wore a "New York Yankees" T-shirt and scrunched combat shorts.

Mike lost his parents when he was seven years of age and he had been living with his grandmother for eleven years. She succumbed to lung cancer after he graduated high school and so decided to rent an apartment with Landon where they would split the living costs between them. They had now lived together for almost a year and their friendship grew stronger.

'So, whad'ya think about Rosberg?' asked Mike, 'I don't think people'll miss him much….'

'_I_ think he was assassinated,' declared Landon, 'who knows? Maybe some _underground_ organisation plotted against him.'

Landon chugged down his Americano and tossed his cup into a nearby bin. Mike followed suit, but the coffee was boiling hot. He spat out his drink onto the polished floor of the mall and stuck out his tongue in pain. It was badly scalded.

'What's wrong?' asked Landon, taking a bite out of a blueberry muffin.

'Whass huh ma-her?' yelled Mike, pointing viciously at his dangling tongue, 'my ho-hee's frea-hin' hot tha's wha-! How-hih-you-rink yours so qui-?'

Landon smirked cheekily at Mike's display, which had attracted the attention of a few security guards, 'Calm down Mikey,' he said, leading them both towards the exit hurriedly, 'mine was lukewarm. I don't know why I buy coffee from that place, it's always disgusting…'

Mike felt the top of his tongue gingerly. Several blisters had now formed on its surface. They reached the exits of the mall and Mike glanced around for any onlookers.

'It's alright,' said Landon, noticing Mike's intentions, 'no one's lookin' now, go for it.'

Mike nodded and placed his fingers gently on his tongue. He concentrated his energy into his fingers. A glistening aquamarine light began to glow from his fingers. Landon watched intently as the burns on Mike's tongue slowly withdrew themselves until they completely vanished.

Mike had the ability to heal his wounds. He had developed this power a few months ago after witnessing a solar eclipse. He went to a local gathering to watch the phenomenon, but soon after the eclipse formed itself Mike lost consciousness. He later woke up in hospital, but with no injuries. A doctor explained to him what had happened, but had no clear reason for why Mike had collapsed. Mike discovered his ability when he was back at home with Landon. Mike cut his knee when he tripped on some stairs, and when he pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding, the same aquamarine light radiated from his hands. Landon had reacted positively to this incident and Mike's power had become a source of entertainment between the two friends.

After Mike's tongue was healed, the aquamarine light fizzled out completely.

'There,' smiled Landon, opening the door for Mike, 'all better.'

'No thanks to you…' mumbled Mike.

As the pair left the mall, they were approached by a dark-browed man with stubble across his chin and cheeks. He had narrow, inquisitive eyes and his dark-brown hair was gelled-up into spikes. He seemed to be pleased by spotting the two of them.

'Excuse me fellas,' greeted the stranger with a hint of urgency, 'could both of you lend me a hand for a minute?'

'What for?' asked Landon.

'My wife's gone into labour,' answered the stranger, 'but my car's run outta gas and the nearest hospital is a mile away.'

'Oh no,' Landon backed away from the stranger, 'you're not gonna ask us to do… what I think you want us to do…'

'Please boys,' the stranger dropped to his knees and brought his hands together as if he was praying, 'her water broke just a few minutes ago and I've already called the ambulance. All I want you boys to do is to keep watch over her while I get some ice. Please boys, we'll make it up to you somehow, we promise!'

'Alright, alright, we'll help you,' said Mike with embarrassment, 'so please, get off the ground, sir.'

The stranger laughed with joy and embraced both boys with a suffocating hug. Landon gave Mike a wide-eyed glare behind the stranger's back. When they were let go, Mike was startled to see tears dripping down the stranger's cheeks.

'Thank you boys, thank you!' the stranger wiped his eyes hastily, 'my wife's in my car in a car park down the road. It a silver Honda on the top floor.'

'Top floor, silver Honda. No problem,' Mike sprinted down the street, 'your wife's safe with us!'

'There's a supermarket inside the mall on your left,' explained Landon, 'they should have some frozen peas or something.'

'Thank you boys,' the stranger cried.

After the boys left, the stranger's smile twisted into a cruel grin. He licked his lips and watched the boys with dark intent.

'Thank you…' he snarled.

Mike and Landon entered the elevator of a 7-storey car park at the edge of a crossroads. Landon stabbed the button for the top floor and pressed the CLOSE button repeatedly. As the elevator jolted into life, Mike couldn't help but feel apprehensive about what was going on.

'Hey Landon,' called Mike.

'What?' answered Landon, 'Don't worry, I don't wanna do this either.'

'No, no I was…I was just thinking…why would someone park their car 7 floors up when their wife's in labour?'

'I dunno…' Landon replied after a lengthy, pensive pause, 'come to think of it, there were loads of empty spaces down on the first floor.'

'There's something fishy about all this…'

'Okay,' Landon began, 'if we don't find that guy's wife up there, then we'll know he's lying.'

'Yeah, alright. You look on the left side; I'll go to the right.'

The doors of the elevator pinged open.

The car park was practically empty. There was only one car parked on the far side of the floor. The hanging fluorescent lights blinked and buzzed incessantly as they approached the vehicle. The car itself was a rusted Mazda 626. Its left headlights were smashed and its blue body was caulked. The windscreen was smashed in and the tyres were missing their rims. Several police tickets were stuffed underneath a bent windshield wiper. There was, of course, nobody inside.

'There, this is proof enough!' Landon yelled angrily, 'why the hell did he trick us like that?'

'I dunno,' sighed Mike, 'let's just get outta here. I don't like the looks of this…'

They headed back towards the elevator and pressed the DOWN button. The elevator had gone back down to the first floor and was on its way back up. The numbered lights on top of the elevator flashed slowly up each floor.

Landon grasped Mike's shoulder, 'It's him…'

They backed away from the doors and sprinted towards the stairs. The elevator doors pinged open once more and the pair of them paused to see if the stranger had come out. To their relief, the doors gaped open harmlessly.

Mike headed back cautiously and peered inside the tiny, foam-covered compartment.

'It's alright!' Mike called, 'He's not in here.

As Landon approached him, Mike noticed that the doors weren't closing. He was well out of range for them to shut automatically. He drew nearer to it.

When Mike entered the threshold, the cover on top of the elevator was ripped apart. Mike, startled, stumbled clumsily backwards. A figure jumped into the compartment and stared hungrily into Mike's eyes. The stranger from the street gave him a beast's grin.

'Sorry, out of service,' he declared.

Mike was thrown across the cement floor. Landon watched petrified as his best friend crashed heavily on his back. To Landon's dismay, the stranger had not moved a muscle. It was as if Mike had been thrown by some invisible force…

Landon instinctively went for the stranger. He clenched his fist and yelled out a war cry. The stranger slowly stepped out of the elevator and raised two fingers at him. He flicked them to the right and Landon was sent flying in the same direction. He slammed painfully into a stone column head on. His body crumpled lifelessly onto the floor like a broken puppet.

Mike got up slowly to face the stranger. He had seen what had happened to Landon and fear had taken over his body. What was going on? Who was this man?

The stranger sauntered towards him imperiously and looked from left to right mockingly, 'I guess my wife's left me,' he smiled.

Mike stood bravely against him, 'Who the hell _are_ you?' he asked fiercely.

'I've recently been on a…spiritual journey. But now that it's over, I've decided to immerse myself in my old hobby again.'

Mike's body was pressed against a concrete column. The stranger had only moved his fingers to do it. Did he have an ability too?

'I can smell your power,' he continued, 'I wonder what you can do…'

The stranger lifted his right hand and pointed at Mike's head. He then began to draw an imaginary line across Mike's forehead. An intense rush of pain flashed from where the stranger had pointed. Mike's screams echoed across the floor as a corner of his head was being split open.

Mike had never healed his wounds without using his hands before, but he was desperate. He focused all his energy to his forehead. To the stranger's disbelief, Mike's wound glowed aquamarine. The wound slowly closed up, and the stranger, frustrated, thrust Mike's body forward in front of him.

Mike dangled helplessly in the air as the stranger glared at him with contempt.

'Another healer,' the stranger sighed, 'I'm tired of seeing your kind.'

_Another_ healer? Before Mike could utter a word, the stranger dropped him abruptly to the floor. Mike's knees cracked loudly as they made contact with the rock-hard concrete. Mike screeched and rolled onto his back in agony.

'I've wasted my time…' the stranger sneered.

The stranger turned and walked towards the stairs. Mike clasped his knees and healed them swiftly. He leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the stranger. Mike wasn't going to let him get away, not after what he did to him and Landon….

The stranger turned back to face him, 'You guys never stay down….'

Mike put all thoughts of hopelessness and fear behind him and concentrated all his energy into beating this man. He wanted to make him pay. He wasn't going off scot-free.

The stranger raised his fingers vertically and positioned them parallel to Mike's neck. Mike clenched his fist and aimed for the man's chest. He wasn't going down without a fight.

Mike's fist became enveloped in a shroud of jet black light. By the time he noticed his fist had made contact with his opponent. The stranger was just as astonished by this as Mike was, and his short lapse of concentration allowed Mike to strike. The stranger's breath was knocked out of him, and Mike was shocked to see that his fist continued to burrow _into_ the man's chest. Mike watched horrified as the stranger's skin started decaying into a shade of sickly grey-brown.

The two of them stood there motionless in total silence. The stranger croaked eerily as his whole body began to deteriorate. The rotting reached the stranger's face, which was twisted into a gargoyle's gape. It was only then that Mike finally retracted his fist. He stumbled away from the stranger, who dropped instantly to the floor, his eyes fixed wide with terror. Mike watched with anguish as the jet black light slowly dispersed into the air. He stared grimly at his still-clenched fist. He looked back at the stranger's crumpled body and winced. What did he _do_?

Mike approached the stranger's body warily. The stranger's body was now a blotchy, grey mess. Hideous brown blobs protruded from the man's flaky skin. He looked nothing like a human being anymore. Mike noticed a broken Sylar watch strapped around the stranger's withered wrist. Mike lurched violently. He did this to him…..

Mike was startled by the rumble of an engine. The pitiful Mazda from across the floor screeched to a halt beside him. The driver swung the passenger door open and called out to him.

'Get in!' Landon yelled, 'We gotta go, we're not safe here!'

Mike glanced at the stranger's body, 'But…but I…'

'I saw what happened! The further we are from this place, the better! Now come on!'

Mike gave one last look at the rotten body before leaping into the car. The Mazda flew down the winding slope to the bottom floor. Mike stared at his quivering hands and buried his face in his palms.


End file.
